


As The East Wind Swept Through

by amissie_valvert



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: After Reichenbach, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Lestrade, BAMF Molly, Cemetery, Cutting, Dead Sherlock, Feels, Gen, Hurt, I hope you guys will forgive me, M/M, Major Character Injury, Near Death, POV Multiple, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Reichenbach-Related, Sad, Self-Harm, this is really messed up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amissie_valvert/pseuds/amissie_valvert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade hadn't heard from John in days, and he couldn't find him anywhere.</p><p>John takes Sherlock's death hard. Lestrade along with others help try to pick up the pieces.</p><p>Multiple POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Probably going to have several chapters but idk
> 
> I LOVE COMMENTS! TO THE MAX

It had been four days, the funeral had come and gone in a blur. John couldn't even recall seeing anyone there, he was sure everyone was. He hadn't had the energy to return to the flat. Currently he was sitting, piss drunk in damp grass leaning against a cold, and unwelcoming slice of thick granite with the words  _ **SHERLOCK**_ **HOLMES**  etched into it. His drunken, slowed mind spared a thought for Mrs. Hudson who he knew was probably worried sick over his absence, but he couldn't bear the weight of leaving. The only thing he had done these last four days was leave to buy two large bottles of scotch. Unfortunately they had been consumed to fast for his liking.

***

Lestrade was worried he hadn't seen or heard from John since the funeral and know he had just received a worried phone call from Mrs. Hudson asking if John was with him or if he had seen him. He was panicked but knew John would never do something that stupid, at least he thought he wouldn't.

Quickly he texted Mycroft

_Have you seen John - GL_

within a second of sending it he got a response

_He's sitting at my brothers grave- MH_

_Thanks-GL_

He typed fast not caring about the informality of the text. He jumped in his BMW and drove away from Scotland Yard towards the cemetery. It took five minutes filled with tangible fear to get to the cemetery. He drove up the small way towards Sherlock's burial sight. He immediately spotted John sitting reclined onto the tombstone. He got out of his car quietly careful not to spook him and walked over.

John didn't look up Lestrade wondered if he had even noticed him. Lestrade noticed however that John was still wearing the same outfit he had to the funeral.

 _Great,_ he thought, _he hasn't even gone home yet_

He also noticed two rather empty glass bottles lying on the grass, alcohol bottles. He could smell them from where he was standing.

"John", he said quietly lowering himself to his knees.

***

John looked up upon hearing his name to see Lestrade kneeling before him. He grunted in response letting his head fallback into his arms.

"John", Greg tried again shaking his shoulder, "Lets get you home". John nodded his head in understanding, "Home… snds good".

Lestrade reached for his hand and John let himself be heaved up. The world spun and he immediately regretted moving.

"Take deep breathes", he heard Lestrades advice. He sucked in as much air as his lungs could handle. It hurt his lungs hurt and his stomach clenched hard with the lack of substance.

"Good now lets go", Lestrade started leading him away from the grave. They made it to the oak before John hunched over and expelled whatever alcohol he had left in his stomach. He cringed as it burnt his throat making him hurl more until all he could do was dry heave.

***

Lestrade held John up as he heaved the contents of his stomach onto the floor. Their wasn't much he might add, only liquid. Eventually John stopped and deposited his weight onto Lestrade, John's chin resting perfectly on his shoulder.

"I loved him". Lestrade thought he miss heard until John spoke again, "I loved him and only realized to late my affections for him. And now… that bastard… left me behind. I don't know if I can recover from this one"

Panic filled Lestrade's chest. "Don't do anything you will regret John", John hummed in response not truly giving a straight answer. "Lets get you home"


	2. Chapter 2

The trip home was fast it was getting up the stairs that was the obstacle. Eventually and quite luckily they made it without falling. Lestrade quickly deposited John in his bed and soon enough John was snoring. Finally Lestrade had time to think. He needed to figure out something to do to help John. He decided he would get dinner first, John obviously hadn't eaten anything for a long time. He called down to Mrs. Hudson who immediately appeared.

"Yes dear, what do you need?", Lestrade could see the worry in the bags under her eyes and the quiver in her voice. Lestrade felt sorry for her, John going missing for four days, when she finally sees him again he is piss drunk to the point he couldn't even get up the stairs by himself.

"Would you mind making John some dinner I don't think he has eaten at all these past few days?", I asked as reassuring as I could offer. She smiled brightly at me her face lighting up,

"Of course dear, but only this once I'm the landlady not the housekeeper!" She declared as if often repeating herself. She gallivanted back down the stairs and into her kitchen. Lestrade brewed a nice cuppa while she was gone and by the time it was done heating she had reappeared in the doorway with a tray of food in her hands. She followed Lestrade to the downstairs bedroom, Sherlock's old room because he really couldn't handle another set of stairs and into where John was settled.

"John", Lestrade half whispered seating himself on the edge of the bed. He shook John's shoulder slightly. John's eyes opened slowly, taking in his surroundings half aware of the other people in the room. Anyone who looked could easily tell you he was still drunk, but not as severely.

"I brought you some food dear", Mrs. Hudson interjected behind Lestrade. John looked at her tears developing underneath his eyelids.

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson", John sat up slowly looking a bit sore from malnutrition. Mrs. Hudson kindly handed him the plate that John accepted with a smile. It was filled yet everything on the plate was simple as to not upset John's stomach. Lestrade smiled at the thoughtfulness of the older woman.

_So this is how Sherlock had survived this whole time, the help of this woman and of course John. I wonder what he did before..._

Lestrade quickly deteriorated that train of thought. He knew what Sherlock was like before John. Yet they had a completely different relationship, Sherlock wasn't the one finding the criminals he was the criminal. Constantly being arrested for possession and substance abuse, occasionally for disturbing the piece.

***

John took a bite of the meal his head was still spinning and his eyes a little blurry. For a different reason then before though. He awoke in Sherlock's room,  _old room,_ he corrected himself. The tears he had refused to shed the last week were finally winning the battle and dared to be spilt.

Fortunately his reverie was spoilt by Mrs. Hudson, bless her the gracious woman, with a plate of food. He sunk his teeth into the toast and his stomach growled, mad at him for abusing it, at first it seemed to refuse the substance. After another bite though his stomach began to crave it. Soon enough he was almost finished with the plate. After he ate all he could he looked up. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade where still there in the same positions as when he began to eat.

Gratefully now he was a little more sobered and ready for the conversation, or scolding, that was going to occur.

"Thank you again", he said putting the plate down on the nightstand. "And thank you for fetching me Lestrade, I wasn't in … in my right mind"

Lestrade seemed to take pity on him frowning back at him, "Of course you weren't John, you still aren't. You need time to recover you just lost your best friend."

"But", Mrs. Hudson said looking a bit fierce, "If you scare me like that again I don't know what I'll do to you".

John smiled at her brightly, "I wouldn't dare it"

"Good, now how bout you get some rest", Lestrade said pushing him back down into the bed. John nodded and soon enough fell back asleep.


	3. One week later (John's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm making this into a chapter thing. I'm going to start making the chapters longer also so it probably will not be updated as often.

**7 Days** Later

John lay awake in Sherlock's bed. Ever since the first night back at the flat he had used this room as his own. He just couldn't bear to be anywhere else. He looked over to the alarm clock on the bedside table. The clock glared at him  **5:54 am**. He didn't sleep well anymore in fact the last time he slept this bad was when he arrived home from Afghanistan. **  
**

John held his chest with his hand trying to will the pang of pain that rooted residence in his heart. His body physically hurt. His shoulder stung and everyday it was getting more and more difficult not to walk with a limp. He refused to use his cane. It made him think that everything Sherlock had done for him, everything that he changed no longer mattered. He simply existed with it unable to recognize it afraid that it would overtake his life like it had done before Sherlock.

John had enough of the dwelling and decided it was time to get up and make some tea. He walked into the kitchen slowly, the drag of his foot weighing him down. He put the kettle on and decided an apple was a good enough breakfast this morning. He set the apple down on the table and grabbed a knife. Slicing through the apple with ease his mind again wandered to thoughts of Sherlock. A stinging pain hurled him back into the present. John looked down blood covering his hand the same color as the skin of the apple. A nice size gash in his thumb. Immediately without thinking John got a hold of the emergency kit and opened up sterilizer, disinfecting the wound. It stung and John gritted his teeth together. He wrapped the thumb in a few layers of gauze and taped it up. He turned the stove off and walked into the sitting room cuppa in hand.

His mind one again overflowed with thoughts.

_Why did I leave him?_

I _should have stayed behind with him_

_All the signs were there, he wasn't acting normal I should have seen it_

_I'm a bloody doctor for christ sake_

A small sting surged through his body, the cut still hurt. He looked down at his injured hand and saw a red tint the bandage hadn't held before. The cut must have been deeper then he thought to be losing so much blood.

Throughout his chores the cut slowed him down and constantly hurt when he twisted it or scratched it along something. It was nothing more than a damn nuisance. Around six pm John heard a knock at his door followed by the small squeal of the door hinges rubbing against one another. Mrs. Hudson stepped through the entrance with a tray in hand.

"You haven't been to the store in a bit, I thought you could do with a nice, home cooked meal to warm you", she was right. Their was no food in the flat and he hadn't eaten since the apple for breakfast.

"Thank you", John said with a small smile.

"You look much better today", she commented innocently as she set the tray down on the kitchen table. Methodically she started to remove the contents. John dwelled on her comment, she was right. Today he had barely thought of Sherlock, as upset as he was to admit it to himself, it had made him feel a little lighter than usual.

"There you are dear", and with that she passed by him, knocking his shoulder a bit. His hand got the most of it and stung. "Oh dear me, are you ok?", she said lifting his hand.

"I'm fine", he lied as he plastered the most sincere smile on his face, "Thank you Mrs. Hudson", she smiled back and left him alone.

John sat down, thinking about what was different about today, why he was thinking less on Sherlock. He looked down at the now soaked bandage.

 _Must have reopened,_  he thought to himself. He opened the medical kit still laying on the table and took at a new sheet of gauze. Quickly he replaced the old with new bandages and sat back down to eat. His hand stung through the meal.

***

The next day was a Sunday. He went for a stroll in the park and fed the ducks in the pond not really wanting to do much. Today it seemed he was not as lucky as the previous. He couldn't get his mind off Sherlock.

Out of anger he grasped the hand rail attached to the bench he was sitting at, pain flared through his arm demolishing any lugubrious thoughts. He held his hand as he thought to himself

_The pain takes away the sadness_

He decided to test his theory. Through out his daily activities if he started dwelling on a certain detectives death he squeezed his hand hard, not hard enough to reopen the wound just enough to send a little pain coursing through his veins. It worked, immediately the thoughts left him, he could concentrate again. He got more work done the past two days then he had since Sherlock had passed.

***

He extracted a few razor blades from the side cabinet in the bathroom along with gauze and disinfectant. He still was not completely sure of himself but he needed to try. He couldn't dwell anymore, he decided he needed to move on.

He grasped the dull side of the blade and placed the sharpened side against his other wrist. He pressed down slowly, watching as the blade pushed against the skin, at first he witnessed only the first few layers of tissue split and tear apart. He pushed a little harder and red enveloped the blade pushing its way out of his body. He dragged the razor down to the other end of his wrist gasping at the small sting it created. He had tears in his eyes. Relief. He pushed down once more a little harder yet not hard enough to be lethal. Another gasp and another sigh of relief pulsed through him. He released a breath of anticipation he hadn't known his body was holding onto.

He poured the disinfectant over the cuts revealing in the sting it evoked. Quickly he grabbed the bandages and pushed them into his wrist hard trying to maximize the pain. It worked so well. His mind could naught but concentrate on the pain, he sat down and leaned against the tub exhausted, holding the gauze to his abused wrist.

***

Cutting soon became an excuse for everything. If he had a bad day at the surgery he would look forward to getting home so he could drag the now well used razor blade across his skin. 

Tonight was a "danger" night for him. He chuckled at the irony. He was having a danger night because of the man that practically invented the danger night. He slide the razor against his skin again yearning for release, something, anything that would take away any amount of pain. It wasn't helping this time. It seemed every time he sliced the pain in his chest only increased in fervor. He sliced again almost manic. He felt tears start running down his face as the feeling of hopelessness enveloped him. He was useless he couldn't even stop the pain.

_Please, God, If you exist, take away the pain. I'll do anything for the pain to end_

He sliced again uncontrolled. He looked down at his arm. Red, was the only thing his foggy mind could register. His eyes were almost totally blurred and not just from the tears rolling down his face. Why couldn't he make it stop? He watched as the blood ran down his arm. Their was to much blood loss his professional mind contributed he was losing an unsafe amount of blood. His mind slurred again and sent another dosage of dopamine to his over drugged brain, finally! 

He slouched against the tub, head resting against it. His cut arm rested against his knees, blood was now soaking through his trousers. His other hand lay limp against the cold marble flooring. Maybe he would finally die. He would be grateful for it God knows. Maybe if there was an afterlife he would be able to see Sherlock again. 

His mind was fogging to much to think he decided he might do well to rest his eyes for a bit and take care of the mess when he awoke when he heard the door to the bathroom open sending a surge of panic to well up inside of him. He tried moving but couldn't he felt paralyzed. 

"John!", Lestrade yelled, "You dumb bastard', was the last thing he heard before he blacked out from blood loss.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a few days since he had talked to John and Lestrade was getting a bit worried. Ever since the incident in the grave yard John promised to stay close by and call him every few days. Deciding it was time to get John out of 221 B Lestrade decided to reinstate the weekly pub crawl.

It was a chilled friday night, but Lestrade was just grateful for the clear skies. He walked down Baker Street pulling his over coat close. He knocked lightly on the door and didn't get a response. Lestrade took out the extra key Sherlock had given him a while back when they worked close together, before John came into the picture.

The lights in 221 A were off, Mrs. Hudson must have taken her herbal soothers then. He climbed the stairs, stomach doing flips in his abdomen. He felt uneasy. He knocked on John's door but didn't receive an answer so he pushed it open.

"John", he called out a little more quiet then usual. If John was indeed asleep then he wouldn't want to wake the man from his well deserved rest. His stomach fell a bit more. He could smell something in the air, it was almost familiar but he couldn't exactly place what it was.

Lestrade checked Sherlock's old room first remembering the night he brought John home. If Lestrade knew John half as well as he believed he did he would bet money that John hadn't gone back to sleeping in his original room but John wasn't there when he looked. Lestrade made a quick exit of Sherlock's room feeling uncomfortable.

As he closed the door he could see light under the bathroom door. "John", he knocked on the door. He checked the handle, it was unlocked. Greg felt his stomach hit rock bottom, as a overwhelming wave of dread crashed over him, he opened the door.

The sight that greeted him he couldn't process, it all connected, the familiar smell, iron in the blood. Blood was everywhere in the small bathroom. John's head lolled to his side uncomprehendingly, "John", Lestrade gasped, "You dumb bastard". 

Lestrade rushed to his side pulling out his mobile and dialing "999". John had lost consciousness, and over a pint and a half of blood. Lestrade gripped John's wrist hard, clamping down on the blood flow. After finishing his call with the emergency service he called the only person he thought could take care of a situation like this, Mycroft Holmes.

His autopilot finally turned off after having completed all the necessary steps for the situation and he looked down. John was under him unconscious, he looked deathly pale and worn. His face was sunken in worse than the last time he had seen him at the graveyard. He had lost at least seven pounds since then. Under his eyes were two bruised stripes from the lack of rest. His collar bones were more pronounced, and the worst was the fading but still present cuts on his wrists that he could barely make out under the crimson of the fresh blood dripping down his arm.

His focus was completely on John, he didn't hear the door open. Someone grasped his shoulder and Lestrade let go of John letting the paramedics proceed doing their jobs. The hand had yet to disappear. Greg turned to meet the stoic face of Mycroft. Mycroft looked from him to John and the blood in the bathroom, a grimace placed on his usually indifferent face.

"Someone grab a defibrillator, he's going into cardiac arrest"  

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, honestly I wasn't going to continue writing until I received another comment telling me people were actually still interested in this story. Here's the next installment, focuses on more of the little characters we don't usually get the chance to see develop. Hope you enjoy!

Greg shook in his boots, terrified, as he stood outside the hospital, smoking his second cigarette, waiting for news.

"Mind if I join you?", came a familiar voice that shocked him at how different it sounded. Greg nodded his head in agreement, taking a hit from his cancer stick. He looked over at Mycroft as he was just lighting his cigarette. "Low Tar", he heard someone say in a voice that is now forever silent to the world.

"You still smoke like a beginner", Greg joked trying to lighten the mood, confused as to why Mycroft cringed. They settled back into silence, Greg petrified a doctor would walk out the front door of the hospital, at any moment, to tell him he lost his other best friend.

"John is a strong man", the first words Mycroft had spoken since Greg had explained the situation to him.

"Some things not even you can control", Greg felt a reamergence of anger at the older Holmes blossom in his chest. In his anxiety he had forgotten he was angry at Mycroft, after all Sherlock's death was on his shoulders, and know John's would be too. "Death seems to be one of them", he spit out with disgust. Greg dropped his cigarette and stamped it out with his foot.

"My only regret in life is that I cannot", again Greg thought Mycroft's voice sounded off. Greg looked at is face once again, this time truly evaluating it. He looked pale, but Greg dismissed it, Mycroft had always been pale. He looked a little thin, but then again he was covered in shadows. Greg watched as Mycroft raised the cigarette to his lips, if he hadn't been watching as clearly he would have missed the nearly imperceptible shake of his hand, Greg couldn't fool himself anymore.

_Mycroft is hurting._

"Serves you right, you bloody bastard", Greg regretted it as soon as he saw the stricken emotion that resided on Mycroft's face for a microsecond. Mycroft didn't respond. Greg wished he would, wished he would set fuel to the fire in his chest, instead Mycroft's unresponsiveness, as if he believed he deserved the words, chilled the flames. They did not die, but they decreased in fervor.

"I'm going back inside", was all he said before walking away, leaving no time for a response. He doubted he'd even get one had he waited.

***

Mycroft walked out of the hospital needing to get away from the trapped, stuffiness that enveloped all hospitals in an unfriendly atmosphere. Mycroft  had hated hospitals since Sherlock's first overdose. As he exited into the cold, brisk, night air he felt the panic in his chest, he always got while in a hospital, recede. He saw DI Lestrade take a puff of his, going by his sports coat, second cigarette, and decided to join him.

"Mind if I join you?", he asked, with the manners their parents never managed to instill in Sherlock. Pain struck through his chest at the thought of Sherlock. Lestrade nodded his acceptance and he pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. As he lit up he heard Lestrade mumble,

"You still smoke like a beginner", he felt a lightning strike of pain, this time straight through his heart. He dared not respond, if he opened his mouth he was sure only a squeak would come out. As they settled back into a semi comfortable silence he watched Lestrade from the corner of his eye. He knew by the detectives eyes flickering to the hospital door he was terrified the worst would happen.

"John is a strong man", he said as a means for reassurance. Immediately he saw Lestrade's eyes glaze with anger.

"Some things not even you can control, death seems to be one of them", Mycroft was shocked the DI had said that. While Mycroft knew the DI blamed him usually he was to well-mannered to speak on it. Mycroft felt another stab, much sharper than the last two combined shoot through his chest. 

"My only regret in life is that I cannot", he stated quickly bringing his cigarette to his mouth, he felt like a failure when his hand shook.

He knew the DI noticed when he said, "Serves you right, you bloody bastard", Mycroft couldn't physically gather the ability to respond. He was glad when the DI announced his re-enterance into the hospital and left Mycroft in the cold.

***

"SHERLOCK!"

If John could've sat up in the foreign bed he was laying in he would have. He thought, what he know knows was a dream, that he had died and gone to hell. Inside the hell, he dreamed, his punishment for suicide was reliving his best friends death. No matter how he tried to stop it Sherlock always ended up killing himself. He felt like a failure, he felt useless. John gasped hard, sucking needed oxygen into his lungs. He wished he'd had died, at least the pain he knew should've been there was kept at bay by his medication, thank the god John didn't believe in for that. 

John looked around the room, it was dark, but his eyes were already adjusted. He saw Greg sleeping in one of the hard plastic chairs the hospital provided guests. John had no interest in waking Greg and getting a screaming at, instead he just turned away from Greg and delved into his mind. Before long he was asleep again, Sherlock always the last thought on his mind before falling asleep.


	6. Waking Up

John woke slowly, a little dizzy from the recent blood loss. He woke in the same position he fell back asleep in last night, turned over on his side, facing the window. A small amount of light drifted into the room through the ajar curtains. John was thankful for it even though his head throbbed because of it. He refused to let any noise escape from his mouth as he fought back the pain. He used up his little strength to turn over remembering Greg sitting in the chair the night before. He looked at the man silently, and Greg returned the stare. Lestrade had woken before John do to the stiff position his back had been forced into throughout the night.

Neither man talked reveling in the blissful silence. John wanted to apologize but he also knew it would make no difference. John had wanted to die, he still did, both men knew that and had accepted it. That didn't mean Greg was going to let it happen though, he had already lost one to many a friend in his day.

John was grateful Greg's expression did not radiate grief or pity, he might not have been able to hold back a scoff if it had. Greg's face only gave away understanding as he poured John a needed cup of water.

"Thanks, mate", John said accepting the styrofoam cup, a little upset at disturbing the silence. As fluidly as possible John repositioned himself to be sitting, rather than laying, in the bed. Greg merely nodded his welcome.

"Mycroft was here last night, I don't know where he has gone off to now though", a little flair of hatred blazed through John at the mention of Sherlock's "smarter" brother. If you asked John his opinion he would've flat out told you how stupid he thought both of them were, albeit for different reasons. John thought Mycroft was a terrible man without any appropriate values in life, but he thought of Sherlock as more of a child.  _Ignorant is a good descriptor for him,_ John thought to himself.

Without meaning to John ignored Greg's comment. "You look terrible Greg", he stated as a matter of fact. "As do you", Greg returned without malice. John sipped his water slowly, both of the men lost in their own separate trains of thought.

"When can I leave?"

"They want to keep you 72 hour on a psych watch", John didn't argue, he was through with arguing.

***

The men had sat in neutral silence for little under an hour before a nurse walked in on her daily rounds.

"Look who's up", she said eerily cheery. John immediately hated her for it. Going by his facial expressions John was sure Greg did too.

"Like some breakfast?", John nodded. He hadn't realized how hungry he was before the topic of food was brought up. "Alright, I'll be sure to let the canteen know". With that she was gone.

"I've got to get home and get dressed for work", Lestrade announced, "I'll swing by later." It was not up for debate.

***

As Greg left the hospital room he spotted Mycroft sitting perfectly straight in one of the hospitals hard, plastic chairs. _Does the man ever relax_.

"I thought you had left"

"John is my responsibility, I can't just leave him"

Greg chuckled at him condescendingly, "Maybe if you had thought of Sherlock like that none of this would have happened."

Mycroft gave no visible physical or verbal response, so Greg left him sitting alone in the hallway.

***

John was halfway through his breakfast when his room door opened again. He was unhappy to make a reacquaintance with the nurse, and was even more unhappy when he saw who was standing there instead.

"Get out", was all John could say, he tried evening out his, now, rapid breathing.

"I merely came to inquire as to how you were feeling, and seeing if anything could be done, on my part, to help you". Mycroft's words angered John.

"You aren't a damned martyr, you know, it's your fault everything had ended the way it has".  John's blood boiled with rage, "If it makes you feel better about your arse hole self you can get them to release me early, now leave".

Mycroft did just that, thankfully. John pushed away the rest of his meal, no longer hungry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M TERRIBLE WHEN IT COMES TO ABUSING MYCROFT, I just can't help myself. The plot will thicken next chapter!!
> 
>  
> 
> LOVE ME, LEAVE ME COMMENTS. COMMENTS ARE MY FAVORITE!!!!!!


	7. The Ultimate Cliff Hanger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Guys and Gals,  
> Sorry for the delay, I'm terribly inconsistent.  
> Anyways I decided to make this into an AU. It already was a little bit, because Sherlock has actually died, or has he?  
> Instead of me saying "Watch season 4", like our favorite tormentors my advice is to "Read on"  
> Again anyway... I'm moving the timeline of the story up. That's basically all you need to know for now.  
> Adios! And Enjoy!

John's blood boiled. He sat still, and upright in his hospital bed staring out the sliding glass doors with a look that could kill. The person in which the stare was destined for didn't even acknowledge him, but John was damn sure he could feel the heat from his gaze.

Mycroft sat outside his room in silent vigil. He hadn't left since John was admitted, and John doubted he would leave until he was released. John swore if that twat followed him home he would not be responsible for his own actions.

The least the bugger could do was get him out of this 72 hour psych evaluation, of which there was only 8 hours left.

John itched to leave this place. He didn't want to return to Baker Street, he didn't want to see Mrs. Hudson, he didn't want to be reminded of what he had done, and what he had lost, but he refused to stay in this bloody awful place.

As a doctor this was an unusual feeling for him, he had never been uneasy in a hospital until now. Perhaps it was because this time he was the patient.

He turned on the telly, hoping the time would move by a little faster. Greg would be taking him home from hospital and was due to arrive soon. John fought his boredom, he was happy that Lestrade promised to start consulting him on cases again. Hopefully it would keep him from his self-destructive actions.

John flipped through the channels slowly, his brain not truly absorbing the information. John pressed the down arrow one last time and nearly had a heart attack. His heart rate monitor shot through the roof, and started beeping erratically. Mycroft rushed into the room, and stopped, still, in his tracks. Slowly, John's heart rate monitor slowed. It had just stopped screaming when a nurse entered the room. Mycroft immediately sent her back outside shutting the hospital door, locking it, and drawing the blinds.

Neither man spoke, John couldn't even remember to be angry at him anymore. All either of them could do was stare up at the television screen in terror.

The loop on the television showed a poorly photoshopped photo of Moriarty, as it repeated the question, "Did you miss me?"


End file.
